


Until My Bones Are Tired

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Brief Underage References, Cunnilingus, F/F, Fingering, First Time, Infidelity, Referenced Body Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 01:36:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: On the eve of her elopement with Arthur, Molly Weasley finds herself in a hostel in Scotland facing one of life’s many crossroads. Over the course of a long, slow night, Molly is reminded how complicated love can be and how hard it is to say goodbye.





	Until My Bones Are Tired

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes on Age:** Molly and Arthur eloped at some point between Molly leaving Hogwarts in the late 1960s and before Bill Weasley was born in 1970. Based on those dates, this fic is set in 1968. Canon is unclear if Molly Weasley was born in 1949 or 1950 and I have gone with 1949 which means at the time this fic is set, Molly is 19. Poppy Pomfrey was born pre-1954 but we don’t have an exact age for her so for the purposes of this fic, Poppy is 20 and has not yet started working at Hogwarts. The underage references are for brief flashbacks to sexual experiences where Molly and Poppy were over the UK age of consent (16) but under 18.
> 
>  **Other Notes:** Thank you to my brilliant friend [gracerene](http://gracerene09.tumblr.com/) for beta reading on super short notice. This story was a difficult one for me to write, particularly being so conscious of the negative stereotype of the ‘cheating bisexual’, but sometimes love is complicated, messy and confusing and I wanted to explore that in this story, together with queering Molly Weasley a little. Thank you to the fab femslash minifest which continues to be a fun place to inspire all my feels. 
> 
> I should also confess I got totally lost in this ‘verse and I have a little extract where Molly tells Arthur about liking witches too and if anybody is interested, I’m happy to share it.

Molly pats her hair facing the mirror in her hostel's bathroom, her stomach twisting with nervous anticipation. The journey took longer than expected, but Arthur insisted on doing things the Muggle way. He commented with wide-eyed fascination on everything from the train ticket to a napkin, until Molly told him _they’re going to put you in Azkaban for breaking the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, love_ and shushed him with a fond kiss.

“Molly Weasley,” Molly whispers. It sounds so odd, even after dreaming about this moment for months. She wonders if she’ll ever feel like a proper Weasley, or if wearing her husband’s name will be like putting on a new coat that doesn’t fit right. _Husband_. Molly smiles at herself in the mirror, tutting at the flush in her cheeks and the giddy look in her eyes. She’s already excited about tomorrow and spending her first night with Arthur in the rickety inn they booked for the wedding night. She still wishes they could have spent this night together too—it’s not as though it would have been their first time—but Arthur was insistent. _It’s bad luck, Molly_ , he said in that earnest, happy way of his. _With a war coming we don’t want any of that!_

Molly runs her hand over the slope of her belly and stares at her reflection. She’s not pregnant yet, but she knows how much she’d like to be. The picture of a crowded table full of children makes her heart soar. She wonders what they’re going to be like, the children that her and Arthur talk about over small glasses of sherry and sweet, summer kisses on the back of hazy, sunshine filled days. They’re going to have a whole tribe of them, Molly hopes. Boys and girls she can keep safe from the horrors of the world. She wonders if they’ll be brave, strong, and happy, and whether they’ll have red hair too—like her and Arthur. She hopes they get her eyes and although she’s terribly fond of Arthur’s crooked nose, she hopes they manage to avoid that. _I’m so in love with you already,_ she whispers. _I’ll spend my whole life loving you and keeping you warm, well-fed and safe_.

She splashes water on her face and leaves the bathroom. In the time since she arrived at the hostel and went into the bathroom, a neatly packed medical bag and a small suitcase have appeared on the neighbouring bed. Molly mutters a curse under her breath. She selected a shared room for the simple reason of cost but had hoped she might spend her wedding eve alone, nevertheless.

With a sigh, Molly stretches out on the bed and opens her book, hoping that her mysterious roommate isn’t planning to come in late and disturb her sleep.

She has a wedding to go to tomorrow, after all.

*

The late afternoon stretches into the evening and Molly is still reading when the door clicks and the owner of the neatly packed bag enters the room.

“Molly?” Poppy Pomfrey looks as though she’s seen a ghost as she stares at Molly. She looks as beautiful as she ever has, with her dark hair sharply styled hair and her eyes wide. Poppy Pomfrey always had a way of looking at Molly that made her feel invincible.

 _Warm hands, slick fingers, first kisses. Not knowing how to stop it, not ever wanting to_.

 _If I don’t find you again, I’ll see you in my dreams, Molly Prewett_.

Molly told Arthur he was her first, because it seemed the most respectable way to go about things.

He was, in one way. Just not in others.

“Poppy?” Molly swallows and sits up, her discarded book falling to the floor. “You can’t be here.”

“I can and I am.” Poppy’s face twists into a frown. In that usual, brisk way of hers she takes in the simple white dress hanging next to Molly’s bed and rummages around in her bag. “You’re getting married?”

“Tomorrow,” Molly replies, voice thick.

“Fate moves in mysterious ways,” Poppy murmurs. She sits on the bed and it squeaks under the pressure. “Oh, for goodness sake.” She pulls a face and gestures to the bathroom. “I’m going to change and try to sleep, if I can.”

Molly watches Poppy make her way into the bathroom and tries to calm the leaping, haphazard beating of her heart.

*

The room smells like toothpaste and soap, and the bed creaks and groans as Poppy turns on it.

“This mattress has so many springs I feel like I’m sleeping on a cactus.” Poppy’s voice—warm and familiar in the dark room—takes Molly back, to the days when Arthur Weasley was her _something_ but not her _everything_.

“Can’t you use magic?” Molly reaches for her wand. “It’s a simple enough spell—”

“No magic.” Poppy huffs and turns again with an irritated cluck of her tongue. “I’m not allowed. Not when I’m working on Muggle wards. They expect us to be trained in basic Muggle methods, you see. Just in case something goes wrong, and we can’t use magic to heal people.”

“You’re nursing?” Poppy always wanted to be a nurse. Molly learned that when they first met, Poppy’s head bowed over her books in Madam Puddifoot’s. The scent of coffee and the taste of hot scones and jam always takes Molly back to a different time. “You were good at healing people,” Molly says.

_Sunburn on shoulders, skin hot and tight. Hands on skin, palms cool and slick with lotion. Inexperienced kisses and bodies that didn’t know how to feel good, only that they could, and should, and would._

“I still am.” Poppy curses as the bed gives another metallic shriek. “This is impossible.”

Molly swallows and tips back her duvet. “You can come here, if you like. Just to sleep. There’s no need to suffer through those springs.”

There’s room enough for two, Molly tells herself. She’s just helping out a friend and making sure they get a decent night’s rest.

“Are you sure?” Poppy sounds uncertain. “Molly—”

“It’s fine.” Molly pulls her duvet back further and shuffles against the wall to create space for Poppy. “We’re adults, now. I’m sure we can share a bed together without any problem.”

“If you say so.”

Poppy makes her way across to Molly’s bed and even though nothing has changed, it’s as though the earth turns upside down.

*

“Do you remember?” Poppy slides into the bed next to Molly. Her nightgown is thin and her feet are cold. She sighs and it shudders through her like the heat of that first climax Molly remembers so well. The one that took them both by surprise, the one that altered Molly’s life forever. “We were so young.”

“We still are,” Molly replies. Her throat is dry, because there’s something so achingly familiar about Poppy and her cold feet pressed against Molly under the privacy of the duvet. Those heady days of school girl exploration come back to Molly in a hot, powerful rush. Slow kisses with somebody unexpected at sixteen. The uncertainty of feeling pleasure at the hands of another girl at seventeen. Not knowing how to ask for any of it but wanting to explore safely in a way that no longer seems safe at all.

“You’re getting married,” Poppy whispers. Even though there’s nobody there, they’re used to being quiet. Molly and Poppy have always done most of their talking in whispers.

“I am.” Even with Poppy next to her, Molly feels an unexpected flush of pride and happiness. “To Arthur Weasley.”

“That young buck always loved a redhead.” Poppy smiles and touches Molly’s hair, her fingers light and gentle in the curls of it. “I’m partial to them myself, truth be told.”

“You and me both.” Molly leans into Poppy’s hand, her heart quickening. “Where’s tomorrow going to take you?”

“To Hogwarts,” Poppy says. “I’m taking up a post there next year.”

“You are?” Molly feels an unexpected surge of pride in Poppy’s accomplishments.

“I’m going to be matron.” Poppy’s voice is full of the eager excitement that Molly remembers so keenly. 

_Damp grass and uncertain kisses. Fingers, wet and hot. Cold night breeze and the scent of lillies catching on the air. Promises of forever, for now, for as long as whimsical summers can ever hope to last_.

“I’m proud of you.” Molly finds she means it. She’s not sure how she and Poppy fell out of touch after being inseparable for that long, hot summer. Arthur, she supposes. The way their relationship shifted and changed meant Molly and Poppy’s had to change too. It was naïve, to think of Poppy as _a friend_. Particularly when seeing Poppy and her books sent the first flush of desire through Molly that she didn’t fully recognise as wanting until Poppy taught her that kind of love was possible.

 _Sometimes girls like other girls, sometimes they like boys and sometimes they like both. I think I just like you, Molly. You’re lovely_.

“Thank you,” Poppy replies. “I’m proud of me too.”

Poppy’s feet are still cold against Molly’s skin and her breathing gets rough as their bodies press together as if there’s an invisible force pulling them close. The room is so dark it was difficult to see Poppy properly from a distance when she was trying to get to sleep in the bed that was too far away. Like this, Molly can see the flutter of her eyelashes against her cheek. She can see the whiteness of Poppy’s smile and the light flush in her cheeks as her lips curve to ask a question she never gets to finish.

It’s not clear who instigates the kiss first, only that it’s not the kind of kiss that stops as soon as it’s begun. Once their lips connect and their mouths open in that slow, familiar slide, everything that comes after is inevitable. Poppy kisses with the same eagerness she always did, and Molly responds with a newly-awakened hunger of her own. The once tentative explorations take on a new quality in this dark, strange room. Their whispers gather in the air and the silence is only broken by the sound of two girls kissing. The murmurs and gasps start before anything really happens, and with each press of their lips together the night gets heavy with the promise of more.

Poppy moves down Molly’s body, unbuttoning her nightgown with deft hands. It leaves Molly naked and trembling in the sheets, the scent of her own arousal obvious enough that she’s quite sure there’s no way Poppy misses it. If she notices, Poppy doesn’t say as much. Instead she flicks her tongue over the hardening nub of Molly’s nipple. _You have ample breasts, my dear_ , Madam Malkin told Molly once during a routine measurement for a new set of robes. It’s always made her feel embarrassed about their weightiness, as if there’s a boldness to breasts that take up space, to a body that lacks the polite perkiness of the smaller girls Molly always envied at school. She’s always felt nervous about the darkness of her large areolas and the way her nipples announce their presence whenever it gets cold. She wore large, baggy clothes at Hogwarts and even if the wolf-whistles were meant to be complimentary, she always felt disconnected from her body after walking past a group of laughing Quidditch players. A thing to be gazed at, entirely separate from herself.

Poppy’s never made Molly feel _looked at_ in any way other than barely disguised astonishment that Molly might want to look back. Tonight, too, she seems to enjoy the curves of Molly’s body with an enthusiasm that takes Molly by surprise. Poppy somehow always makes her feel so utterly confident in her own skin, and she takes nothing but pleasure from the way Poppy massages her hands over Molly’s breasts and licks and sucks at her nipples. Her mouth and the light graze of her teeth as they lightly pull on Molly’s sensitive flesh sends sparks of pleasure to Molly’s hot centre which aches with the need to be touched.

Poppy presses the heel of her palm against Molly’s damp knickers and the touch makes Molly arch towards it, seeking out more. Poppy rubs against Molly, cupping the whole of her in one hand as she sucks on one of her nipples with enthusiasm. When she finally slides her palm off Molly, the cool air of the room ghosts over Molly’s wetness as Poppy throws the duvet off their bodies. It crumples on the floor and it feels like casting off the last of their inhibitions.

Poppy’s fingers against her body are as hot and as perfect as Molly remembers. Molly would almost be embarrassed by the scent of her own arousal if she didn’t already feel so comfortable with Poppy’s touch. She knows that Poppy’s fingers will find Molly soaking wet before they even reach their destination. Her body has responded so eagerly to every kiss and touch and the heat of her burgeoning need twists and coils in her belly. The slide of Poppy’s fingers beneath Molly’s knickers is so familiar. The snap of elastic, the pull away from her belly, the affectionate touch of Poppy’s talented fingers that always know how to hit the spot where Molly aches and burns with need. Her fingers seek out Molly’s clit and it doesn’t take long for the circle of Poppy’s fingers to bring Molly to a bone-shaking climax that travels the entire length of her body and makes her toes curl with pleasure.

 _You’re so wet. So lovely. I want to bury myself in you and never come up for air_.

Molly remembers how much Poppy always loved to taste her and how she never reciprocated. There was something that stopped her from taking that step, using her fingers instead to bring Poppy to a steady orgasm. Neither of them knew what they were doing, then. They were just trying to touch, taste and work out the things that felt as good as their own fingers did under the cover of night when the fantasy of somebody else’s hand burning bright in their minds. It’s clear from Poppy’s confident touch that there have been other girls since Molly, and Molly, too, is no longer as uncertain about her desires as she used to be. Even if it’s madness to intensify the relationship she and Poppy already have—tonight of all nights—Molly wants to give Poppy every pleasure. Perhaps it’s because it might be her only chance to fully explore, or perhaps it’s the strange way all guilt flows from her body as the hue of the night becomes a Poppy-tinted promise. 

Molly moves between Poppy’s legs and pushes up her nightgown, pulling down her knickers. Poppy lifts her backside to help Molly get them down and off, dropping them on top of the crumpled sheets. The scent of Poppy’s arousal floods through Molly and makes her wet and hot, despite the languid aftermath of her earlier climax. She isn’t sure what she’s doing, so she decides to be bold—she is a Gryffindor, after all. She places her lips hungrily over Poppy and mouths at the slick heat of her. When Molly finally finds Poppy’s clit, she parts her lips a little and slides her tongue over the nub of it. She hopes it hits the right spot. It isn’t long before any careful finesse ebbs away entirely, and Molly kisses and sucks at Poppy with frenzied abandon.

Poppy stretches out and the sound of her moans and whispers of encouragement spur Molly on. She’s never had the taste of another woman on her tongue before and she’s surprised to find how much she enjoys it. It leaves her lips and chin wet as she tastes Poppy’s arousal, warm and perfect in her mouth. She finally surfaces for air and runs her tongue experimentally along the length of Poppy’s slit which draws another gasp of pleasure, another clench of Poppy’s thighs.

Molly moves her fingers between Poppy’s legs and slides one inside her. The clenching warmth of her body accepts Molly’s intrusion easily, and as Poppy writhes on the sheets, Molly finds she can’t get enough of her—of this. The heady scent of Poppy is rich and intoxicating on her lips, her tongue, her face and she pushes her finger deeper inside Poppy. Her motions take on a strange, dreamlike quality. It’s as if being between another girl’s legs makes her dizzy, drunk, and it separates fantasy from reality as two become one in a strange, heady haze of arousal and wet, slick pleasure against her skin.

Molly slides another finger inside Poppy and pushes them deep into her body. She’s not sure where it comes from, this desperate desire to taste, claim and _fuck_ as if there might not be another chance. She isn’t sure there will be, she isn’t sure about anything except for this one beautiful moment in their secret place where the ceiling cracks become intricate constellations, their dark room a sky full of stars. Molly pushes her fingers inside Poppy again, enjoying the sound they make, the taste of Poppy’s arousal on her soaking wet lips and the way Poppy clenches, moves, squirms and begs beneath her. It makes Molly ache, every bit of it. It makes her naked body pulse with pleasure and she can’t stop touching, pushing, tasting and drinking in every single second. When Poppy clenches and shakes through her orgasm the sheets get damp and Molly’s face is wet, warm and flushed with unstoppable heat.

“Kiss me,” Poppy begs. She pulls Molly up and they kiss, kiss and _kiss_. Lips hot and searching; the taste of one another on their tongues as they shake and shudder into another overwhelming climax, their bodies rubbing and grinding together under the gaze of the restless night.

They move apart, the taste of Poppy an unforgettable tang on Molly’s tongue.

Molly blinks and her eyes open—truly open—to the mess of the sheets on the floor, the wedding dress that glows white in the moonlight and the curve of Poppy’s tired smile.

The weight of Molly’s guilt settles on her chest, a heavy pressure that leaves her breathless and terrified.

*

“I’ve ruined everything,” Molly says, quiet and resigned. _Arthur_. In the sweaty aftermath of pleasure, the room fills with him. The hearty laugh, the kind eyes, the way his voice breaks when he says _I love you_ and his promise to shout it from the rooftops. _I’ll love you for as long as my tired bones let me, Molly Prewett_. Arthur’s never loved in whispers, but Molly supposes they live in a world where he’s never needed to. Molly has rarely felt an absence so keenly or wanted his kind touch quite so badly.

Poppy gives her a stern look. “Molly Prewett. You’re not to make any daft decisions or lose your head over a girl who dreams differently to you.” She gives Molly a soft smile, her eyes shining in the moonlight. She’s so beautiful, she still takes Molly’s breath away, even now. “Marry that man of yours, goodness knows it’s clear as day you love him.”

“How can you say that?” Molly’s eyes sting with tears and she tugs the duvet up to her chin, her heart beating. “You’re asking me to start my marriage on a lie.”

“I think sometimes there are truths that don’t need to be told,” Poppy replies, quietly. “I’m not sure it helps anything. If you want to tell him, do. About how you feel about witches, at least. But don’t feel you must, not about tonight, when I’ll be gone before the sun comes up.”

“You always were my improbable future.” Molly’s heart aches for Arthur in the aftermath, for the things she’s done without care or regard for the man she loves to the very depths of her soul.

Poppy rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. “I think there are versions of us living in a hundred different universes. In one of them, I’m not improbable at all. In that world nobody cares how two people love.”

“I like that,” Molly says. “I bet she’s happy. I bet they are.”

“I know they are,” Poppy says, fiercely. Her jaw clenches and she brushes her hand over her eyes. “Look at me, I’m being silly.”

“You’re not.” Molly swallows around the lump in her throat. She knows instinctively it’s different for Poppy. “You can be happy in this universe too.”

“Can I?” Poppy turns to Molly with a watery laugh. “I don’t have my Arthur.”

“You’ll find her,” Molly says. Because it’s _her_ , isn’t it? It’s always going to be her, for Poppy.

“Minerva McGonagall’s frightfully attractive, don’t you think?” Poppy gives Molly a slow smile, her eyes saying a silent _thank you_ for the easy understanding.

“I think she’s wonderful,” Molly replies. She means it, too. For Poppy, for herself. It’s not just Poppy in Molly’s improbable futures. There are other women, other men. 

The magic of everything that could have been, everything that might be and everything that is burns bright in her heart and she accepts it.

*

When Molly wakes the bed is empty and there’s no trace of Poppy left in the room.

She closes her eyes and swallows back the tears that threaten to fall. The sheets still smell like Poppy. Molly’s lips still taste of her, the scent of their passion lingering on her skin, the only reminder that the night wasn’t a feverish dream.

Molly stands on shaky legs and showers away the night before, taking care to soap herself all over as if that can somehow erase the press of Poppy’s fingers against her skin. When Molly leaves the bathroom, she notices a piece of folded parchment on Poppy’s tidy bed. She opens it slowly, not sure if she can bear to read the final goodbye.

_Love boldly and love well, Molly Prewett._

_May your future bring you everything you want._

Molly folds up the letter and presses it against her chest. She could follow Poppy now. She mentioned taking a job at Hogwarts. It wouldn’t be difficult to find her again, to go with her heart on her sleeve and to tell Poppy how difficult it’s been to forget her and how much she’s missed her, even in her happiest moments.

Her eyes fall on her wedding dress and another face flashes into her mind. Arthur. Lovely, kind, excitable Arthur. Her heart still pounds and skips at the thought of his lips pressed warm and eager against hers. Arthur Weasley is her past, her present and in that moment of clarity Molly knows with absolute certainty he’s also her future.

The parchment smells like Poppy’s perfume and Molly breathes it in, one last time.

She flicks her wand and watches as the parchment flares into a bright, hot flame and crumples into ashes. She makes a wish for every Molly and Poppy whose story has a different ending in Poppy’s other universes. She hopes they’re happy, somewhere. In another world, another time.

Molly takes a shaky breath and pushes aside the guilt that worms through her.

“It’s done,” she says, firmly. “No more. There will be _no more_ of this silliness.”

She makes the bed, pulls on her stockings and slips on her dress.

She has a wedding to attend.

*

It’s midday when Molly makes her vows.

She kisses Arthur underneath the blue summer sky and the crossroads in her mind merge into one clear, sun-blemished path.

I’ll love you forever, Arthur Weasley, she promises.

I’ll love you for as long as my tired bones let me.


End file.
